


Sherlock Holmes and the Very Strange Day

by EinahSirro



Series: What Would Sherlock Do? [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 14:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2195622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is acting strangely. It's almost as if he has something in mind. Something involving Sherlock. And sex. Or love. Or horrible revenge admittedly richly deserved but hopefully it's not that. It's hard to tell. Need more data.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Holmes and the Very Strange Day

Actually, the Very Strange Day began the night before. Looking back, Sherlock could see the warning ripples on the water of their domestic life, his and John’s. It was exactly like that, like a ripple in the water, and you turn and see the ripples, and follow them with your eyes, and realize there’s a trail, and then you follow the trail to its source… and then you see the dorsal fin cutting through the water. 

And it’s circling you. Yes, you! You’d better put your violin down and watch that fin.

But at the time, Sherlock would have honestly said (if he were in the habit of being honest with himself) that he saw, but he did not observe. Well, not right away.

The night before the Very Strange Day, John was uncharacteristically direct. No, that isn’t right. John is almost always direct. No, that isn’t right either. John is direct when he’s angry. With other moods and feelings, he’s rather crab-like, moving sideways, maneuvering a bit, and then the pincer claws start flexing. But that night, he was direct in a way that Sherlock associated with anger, however John didn’t seem angry, exactly. He seemed… like he was preparing to be angry, if that made any sense.

Sherlock was tuning the violin by the window, aware that John had been brooding for some two months now. Mary was gone… blessedly, finally gone. If ever a woman made Irene Adler look like a playful kitten, it was Mary Morstan. Note to self, Sherlock thought with some acerbity, a dominatrix will beat you but a married woman will kill you. Or try to. Love was a vicious motivator indeed.

So went Sherlock’s thoughts as he carefully adjusted the tuning pegs by the window, when John began a rather curious dialogue that eventually narrowed to a rather cold observation about Sherlock’s “track record.” Sherlock was only paying attention with a small part of his brain until John made that remark. “You don’t have a good track record, Sherlock.” And the detective’s heart almost stopped for a moment.

Some of it was pain. Did John still not realize that everything Sherlock had done, he had done for John? For them, for the two of them, for their friendship, their partnership, their work? Their life together?

And it was on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue to say just that: Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you!

Well, not experimenting on him at Baskerville. And not lying about Irene Adler’s multiple deaths. But… but everything else, yes. 

Still, Sherlock refrained from saying so. In a rare moment of intuition, it occurred to him that this was not the time to make such defensive declarations. His eyes sought John’s in the reflection of the darkened window overlooking Baker Street. His own long, bony skull was a shadowy contrast to the plain but pleasant gold of the man sitting behind him by the fire. John tipped his head that way he always did, and gave him an unforgiving stare that made Sherlock’s heart sink a little.

Lowering his eyes, Sherlock offered up his apology on the violin. It was Brahm’s Double Concerto in A minor, actually written as a duet with a cello, a dialogue of apology written late in Brahm’s life to a friend with whom he’d fallen out over a woman. It did not escape Sherlock that there was a certain poignancy to the fact that he was playing a duet alone: there was no cello to answer his violin’s phrases. 

John listened attentively, as he always did, whisky tumbler dangling nearly forgotten in his fingers, his large, shadowed eyes following Sherlock’s bent wrist as he danced the bow over the strings. When he was finished, John waited a decent interval, then rose and said, “Guess I’ll turn in,” and Sherlock turned and searched those eyes for some sign that his apology was heard, understood, and accepted. 

But John seemed oddly distracted. Still contemplating his list of grievances, no doubt. Sherlock had promised never to deceive him again on such a level, and he repeated it now.

“I do promise, John,” he said, feeling as though this night was somehow weighted with significance. He had to know that John could learn to trust him again. “I’ve deceived you in the past, but I’ve never broken a promise,” Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the man at the foot of the stairs. Such a neat, compact, unassuming looking man. You’d never know, looking at him, that he could kill you through two windows. You might be able to tell he possessed courage and loyalty, but could you tell by looking at him that he’d made a sociopathic genius adore him? Did John even realize it himself?

It was something to wonder about.

After John went up the stairs, Sherlock returned the violin to its case, ruminating on John’s rather bleak mood. We need more cases, he thought. We need to be busy again. We need to be running through London streets, we need—his inner monologue ceased and was replaced by an unacknowledged feeling that he, Sherlock, needed John to look at him again the way he used to, in the beginning, with that wonder and awe.

Could such feelings ever be resurrected?

Sherlock was not certain.

 

The next morning, Sherlock showered and dressed early, and left on an errand intended to culminate in cases. They needed cases. At the morgue at Bart’s, Sherlock surged into the lab, startling Molly, who fluttered about momentarily, as she still was wont to when he appeared. But after a moment of observing Sherlock’s stiff and distracted air, his hands buried in his long coat and no apparent intention of taking it off, Molly had one of those rare moments of insight that always made Sherlock regard her with a bit of appreciation.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” She asked, nervously fingering the test tube in her hand.

Sherlock did that little dance he sometimes did, when his feet stayed nailed to the floor, but the rest of him wanted a quick waltz around the room. “It’s John,” he finally admitted.

“Oh, is he still upset about Mary?” Molly whispered in pained sympathy.

Sherlock responded with a whole-body eyeroll. “No, no, he needs… something, he needs… can’t you go kill someone in an entertaining manner?” He finished peevishly. “You know what coroners look for, you know my methods, really, Molly, if you put your mind to it you could leave a puzzle that would at least make one week of my life endurable.”

Molly three years ago would have winced in horror, but Molly now merely gave a rather puckish little smile. “Why don’t you see if there are any new cases over at NSY? Something that looks boring on the surface but, I don’t know, maybe underneath—“

Sherlock nearly shuddered. “I’m not begging for cases!” He snapped… and then hovered, glancing at Molly out of the corner of his eye.

“Do you want me to beg for you?” Molly asked shyly.

“Fine!” Sherlock said in a huff, and swirled out again with the air of one who had bestowed a great honor on a completely undeserving recipient on behalf of an oblivious ingrate.

On the journey back home, Sherlock’s phone pinged with an obliging message from Lestrade.  
_  
-Come by and finish that paperwork, and I’ll give you a kidnapping and a blackmailer as a treat._

_-Tell me someone interesting has been kidnapped. –SH_

_-Retired CEO of a company that makes plasticware._

_-Boring. –SH_

_-The kidnappers say if the ransom isn’t paid, they’re going to start sending pieces of him back in his own Tupperware._

_-If they do that, it will start to become interesting. –SH_

_-No, if they do that they will mess up and leave clues even Anderson could follow. More interesting if you get them now._

_-Really, the crudest attempt at manipulation I have ever seen. A new low even from you. –SH_

_-John might find it entertaining._

_-Oh, very well. –SH_  
  
Sherlock regarded the exchange with satisfaction. If John ever glanced through Sherlock’s phone and saw it, no hint of begging on Sherlock’s part could be detected. 

He pocketed the phone as the cabbie pulled up to Baker Street, and swept out with a regal air. Only the “OY!” from the cabbie reminded him that he was actually alone and had to pay the fare himself.

Grimacing, Sherlock interrupted himself in mid-stride, turned back and paid the cabbie, then glanced up nervously to the window to see if John had witnessed that undignified bit of gracelessness. But happily, no. John was not at the window. Sherlock paid the cabbie and then asked him to wait, promising another fare momentarily. He then bounded up the stairs and invaded the sitting room in a manner he hoped was equal parts riveting and careless.

“John. We’re going to Scotland Yard to help Lestrade in his endless quest to appear competent. Come, we need to—“

Dead halt.

Sherlock stared. Something was… something was… something WAS, is what it was. It just WAS.

John was staring at the screen of his computer, clearly reading some online text with great intensity. But his fingers were poised as if he had just been typing. Therefore, he was reading his own prose. But John never analyzed his own prose with such focus. In fact, it was one of Sherlock’s pet peeves that John blogged with such unedited abandon. John’s eyes were fixed, though. Not moving left and right as if actually reading. No, they were simply zoomed in, and yet checked out. As if he was analyzing the meaning of what he had written, and not the form. He wasn’t editing. He was… ruminating.  
Ruminating on something he’d written.

But he only wrote when he was blogging, and there was nothing to blog about because they hadn’t had a case, and therefore John had written something of great import and was now reflecting deeply on it… well, it had to be about Sherlock. There was no other explanation. John’s meditations about Mary had been of a wistful, wry, rather disturbed nature. And, Sherlock admitted to himself without a trace of modesty, there was simply no one and nothing else John ever concentrated on with such fervor… except Sherlock.

He’s writing something about me, mused the detective.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and ran his gaze over John. Freshly showered and shaved, very careful shave, no nicks, no cuts, took his time, very deliberate… hair combed down, wearing… oh.

Now this was – (Sherlock’s mind blanked on the adjective)

John’s date shirt, his bluest, softest button-down, the one that brought out his eye color, the one he ALWAYS used to wear on a first date, years ago, abandoned when he met Mary, actually left it upstairs in the wardrobe… but here it was, he was wearing it now, at Brunch O’Clock in the morning. YET… it was under his most worn, reliable “comfort jumper.” The one he wore when he was planning to dig through skips and run down alleys. The one bulky enough to cover the Sig. 

It was as if John had put his childhood security blanket around a box of seductive chocolates, and left them on the table next to Sherlock’s chair.

Tingles ran through Sherlock, and he knew. At that moment, just then, just there, look at this, John’s date shirt… covered by his work jumper. The offering, concealed in duty. The bait, covered with homey assurances of devoted service. 

My God. He might as well be wearing a sign that said “I’m coming for you, Sherlock. And I’m coming from behind.”

John closed his laptop, and turned and leveled a stare at Sherlock that nearly made the detective’s stomach fall out. John wasn’t even trying to hide it. That stare said it all. And the unnerving thing was that it didn’t look as though John was even offering a choice. Sherlock had a sudden hysterical feeling that this was what Juliet had felt when Lady Capulet informed her that a husband had been chosen. Sherlock’s brain stuttered a bit, trying to remember his task.

“Lestrade would like us to come down and fill in the paperwork on that—“ he flapped his hand dismissively toward the door.

John said, “With the bird and the--?”

“Necklace,” Sherlock muttered, “right.”

“Let’s go, then,” John said, and putting the laptop aside, he rose and passed Sherlock to pluck his coat off the hook by the door. A tantalizing whiff of cologne drew itself under Sherlock’s nostrils as John passed. My God, cologne. John only wore cologne when he was moving in for the kill. He didn’t wear it to meet a woman for coffee, or even at a pub. Cologne was for dinner.

Sherlock leaned slightly into it as John moved through the door. So faint. Just a touch. Much less than he used to wear… ah, subtlety. Or stealth.

The taller man followed the short, solid figure down the stairs, almost forgetting where they were going. What exactly did John have planned? Sherlock returned to the waiting cab, acutely aware of John at his side, that cerulean blue collar peeking over the neckline of that oatmeal mush jumper. Such a combination! Sherlock kept darting glances at John’s neck. So lightly scented, so carefully framed in blue, so carelessly covered… it was like…sweet, delicious crab rangoon in a plain paper bag, obtained just for you.

Sherlock felt slightly dizzy.

They ended up in the cab and the detective hardly knew how they got in there. He sank against the window and watched John tip his head this way and that, clearly deeply immersed in what… looked like sexual fantasy, judging from the hooded eyes and occasional touch of tongue to lip. At one point Sherlock could almost see John imagining HIM face down on a bed, John’s hands on Sherlock’s hips, John’s eyes staring broodingly down. Sherlock’s eyes dipped down to the blunt hands that rested calmly on John’s denim-clad thighs. One thumb was moving back and forth in a faintly caressing manner. Sherlock actually had to breathe out of his mouth for a moment simply to assure that he got enough oxygen.

But, and here was the rattling part, John wasn’t saying a word. Generally, when John came to a decision about anything, he drew in his breath, muttered “right,” and then said “Sherlock.” (Because most of John’s decisions had to do with things Sherlock needed to attend to. Shelving use in the fridge was always a topic of conversations that began with a deliberate breath and a “right.”)

Now, however, the cab ride to NSY stretched inexorably on, and John seemed content to brood, and occasionally, smile to himself in a faintly menacing way. This was unbearable.

“John, is there something you want to say to me?” Sherlock asked, biting the bullet. His head was held very high.

“No,” John said, looking slightly surprised, yet somehow pleased. He reached over, put his hand on Sherlock’s hand, and gave it a warm, gentle squeeze. “No, not at all.” He said again, and then let go of Sherlock’s hand and turned back toward window. 

Not at all! Sherlock’s brain, slightly panicked now, converted the mild reassurance into _“You’re going to wake up tied naked to the bed tomorrow, probably spread-eagled, and I don’t want you to worry about it now or you’ll never sleep, so let’s just not stew about it, hm?”_

Sherlock huddled in his coat and shivered with a combination of fright and arousal all the way to their destination. The elevator trip to Lestrade’s office was a symbolic ride to Heaven with an implacable blond angel in an oatmeal jumper (and glowing blue shirt) at his side.

John followed Sherlock mildly into Lestrade’s office. Lestrade looked up from his monitor, grey hair on end as if he’d had his hands in it. Sally Donovan was just turning away from his desk, and her lips gave a bit of a quirk at the sight of them. She was wearing new earrings… actually, very old fashioned earrings but freshly polished. On speaking terms with her mother again, Sherlock surmised.

Lestrade perked up at the sight of them, and Sherlock hoped he had the mother wit to not mention their previous texts. “There you are! Listen, I have at least two more you might be interested in. How about if John fills out the paperwork on this one and you take a look at this?” Lestrade jumped up from his desk and came round to hand a file to Sherlock. He glanced over at John. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Before Sherlock could speak, Sally spoke up mockingly. “Oh, John would do anything for Sherlock, wouldn’t you, John?”  
Sherlock braced himself for a barrage of defensive remarks , but John merely gave Sally a steady look and said calmly, “Yes, I would.” He then stepped around to Lestrade’s desk and sat down, turning his attention to the screen. There was a meaningful silence, and John began filling in the required fields of the waiting online forms.

Sherlock’s insides turned into warm tapioca pudding, and a sweet ache went through his throat, and the palms of his hands. Hope, he realized. That’s hope. For the last 20 minutes he’d been too busy processing shock. Now he was processing hope.

He turned away with as much dignity as he could and followed Lestrade to the conference table to peruse the minutia of the case of Warren Richardson, the kidnapped CEO. He’d been driven by his chauffeur (employed 3 months) to an event where he’d apparently disappeared. His chauffeur, however, claimed to have driven him back home only to have Richardson disappear somewhere between the limo and the front door of his estate. Security cameras in the driveway bore out the chauffeur’s testimony.

Only one photo was obscured by the hedges along the circular drive, and Sherlock was staring at the date time stamp (had the limo slowed or stopped at this point? It almost looked as though—)

“Sherlock. Scarf.” Sherlock looked up, startled, to see John standing at his side, his hand reaching out as if to save a falling man. His eyes were locked on Sherlock’s. His jaw was set with the kind of resolve one associated with facing a firing squad.

For a split second, Sherlock experienced a rare moment of absolute stillness. His head was a diving chamber full of pressurized oxygen. Time seemed to float like dust motes in sunlight.

“Scarf.” John said again, and trance-like, Sherlock slowly unwrapped the scarf and handed it over. He watched in bewilderment as John tossed it across the chairs nearby and came back to strip Sherlock of his overcoat with the professional briskness of a prison guard who is accustomed to processing incoming detainees. John then removed Sherlock’s phone from the pocket of the overcoat and brought it to the detective, sliding it into the breast pocket of his shirt with familiar ease.

“I’m just going to nip down to the canteen and get us all a bit of something. Coffee or tea?” John asked Lestrade, who glanced up, a shock of grey hair falling over his brow. “Oh, great. Coffee… great,” and went back to the photos.

John held up his phone. “Text me if anything dramatic happens in the next 10 minutes,” he told Sherlock. He left the room, humming a little tune to himself, and headed for the elevator. 

The minute the door closed behind him, Lestrade dropped his abstracted pose and exclaimed gleefully, “What was THAT??”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and snapped, “Nothing. Kindly refrain from turning your sordid little mind to matters you know nothing about and focus, if at all possible, on the task at hand. No wonder you accomplish so very little on your own. Your brain functions at the adolescent level and can be drawn off by leaf falling from a tree. Oo, movement!” Sherlock mocked bitterly. “A breeze can blow your thoughts away, God knows what a brisk wind would do.”

Lestrade didn’t even acknowledge Sherlock’s little tirade. He was too busy darting his dark eyes over the detective’s face. “It’s finally happening, isn’t it? After all this time you’ve been—“

“If you say pining, I will kill you.” Sherlock gritted out.

“—has he said anything?” Lestrade asked.

“No idea what you mean.” Sherlock said stiffly.

Lestrade’s cellphone pinged, and he drew it out and tapped at the screen for a moment. “Donovan wants to know how your knees are,” he reported.

Sherlock heaved a sigh and sank into the nearest chair, flopping back as best he could. It was difficult to flop without his couch. Chairs were normally for sitting in primly, with a lordly air. Couches were for flopping on when one was in a childish sulk. He couldn’t sulk in a chair. It just looked surly.

“Nothing is happening,” he admitted finally. “It’s been months. But this morning I thought. Perhaps. I don’t know, oh GOD do we have to talk about it?”

Lestrade sat down at his side, keeping a close eye on the door. 

“What happened this morning?”

“Nothing… he was… blogging and I could just tell, and it’s the shirt he’s wearing, and I cannot talk about this with you. It’s public school all over again, oh, does he like me, does she like me, do you like me, yes, no, or maybe, check the box, pass the note, tell your friend, he tells his friend, it’s all unbearable.” The bridge of Sherlock’s nose was wrinkling up, which Lestrade took as a warning not to push too hard.

Still, as a friend, he had to help—no, sod that, he was just dying of curiosity. The Yard betting pool had gone on so long that if John and Sherlock finally did it, Lestrade would have to look up several retirees just to collect enough to break even.

“Does John have any idea how you feel?”

“How would I know?” Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade looked at him. “You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock eyed him and dug his fingers into the edge of the conference table. “No. No. No, I think I’ve successfully hidden the fact that I would kill for him, die for him, go into exile for him, be tortured for him, come back for him, watch over him, fall apart without him, give him up, take him back, do anything to keep him at my side for the rest of my life OF COURSE HE KNOWS! Or if he doesn’t, he’s an idiot. He is an idiot. You’re all idiots. God I want a cigarette.”

“Sh. He’s coming.” Lestrade turned back to the table and he and Sherlock both sank into an intense study of a garage door. They stared at it as if they’d never seen a garage door in their lives and believed the Mayans had perhaps inscribed the real date of the end of the world upon it.

John came in silently, modestly, sat their coffee where they could reach it, and sank into the background behind them. Ever the man behind The Man, quietly waiting in the wings. Sherlock could feel John behind him like a heat lamp on the back of his neck. Why was he hovering where Sherlock couldn’t look at him and be assured, that John Was Here? Had he not suffered enough John-less months in the last 3 years?

Sherlock snuck a peek at John in the reflection of the windows overlooking the cubicles. John was checking the time. Struck by an idea, Sherlock slid his phone out of his pocket and activated the camera, intending to angle it so that he could at least see John in a rear-view mirror sort of way. But just as he had the idea, John ambled rather absently over beyond Lestrade and picked up a photo.

Then John came over and stood just behind Sherlock, very close.

Very close indeed, Sherlock thought, feeling a pressure building in his chest. Bloody hell, this really was just like public school. That sudden excitement of knowing you were terribly close to someone whom you had dreamt of, planned for, yes, PINED for (oh the mortification)… Sherlock glanced at his phone but unluckily, the photo in John’s hand completely blocked a view of his face.

John moved closer and Sherlock could actually feel the heat of him radiant against his back. Then that warm, firm hand rested on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment, and he was grateful John couldn’t see the flush rising up from under his shirt.

He glanced in the window again and saw that John was perusing him. Their eyes met accidentally in the glass, and the hope that rose again inside Sherlock literally made him catch his breath. John looked away and stepped back.

“Looks like every chauffeur I’ve ever seen,” he admitted.

Sherlock’s brain suddenly kicked in, perhaps fueled by that driving need to impress John. His head snapped up. Of course. Chauffeurs look alike, two chauffeurs, two limos, two men identically dressed. Richardson stepped into one limo which whisked him away to some secure location. The double went with the regular chauffeur to be recorded in the driveway and dive into the bushes at the one bend where the camera’s view was obscured--

“Twins. Lestrade, does the chauffeur have a brother?!”

Of course he did.

Lestrade and Sherlock dove into the files and eventually narrowed the hunt down to the chauffer’s twin’s wife’s brother’s place of employment (let it be a warehouse… YES! It’s always a warehouse) and John sat back, content to drink his coffee and watch Sherlock be brilliant.

For the next two hours, Sherlock and John were in their element. The family ties identified the warehouse, and they accompanied the police as three units surrounded the site. Within twenty minutes, Lestrade’s team intercepted the cousin of the brother of the wife of the twin of the chauffeur of the victim as he attempted to slip past in a delivery van full of tapestries from the Far East (from the textile district in Leeds, more like). Of course the drugged and nearly suffocating victim was rolled up inside of one of the rugs.

John gave the blue-tinged victim a quick, medical once-over, “He needs oxygen,” John reported to Lestrade, who phoned for an ambulance before turning back to the handcuffed delivery man still struggling against the uniformed arresting officers.

Sherlock stood over Richardson, his eyes raking over the retired CEO just as John’s had, but for entirely different reasons. Normally he would have said his work here was done, but Sherlock wanted that extra push, that extra astounding insight that would make John grin and shake his head in wonder, and stare up at him in that special way.

Sherlock remembered John’s warm hand gripping his in the cab earlier. Same hand on his shoulder in the office. Left hand. John was left-handed. Wedding rings worn on left hands. Could he and John wear matching rings? The detective blinked, startled at himself, and shook his head briskly as if to clear it. Such thoughts. Wedding rings meant nothing, look at this fellow here on the ground, face grey from lack of oxygen, even this banal fellow had a gaudy ring to announce to the world his young trophy wife. No doubt it was easy to find a much younger wife with this sort of wealth—

Sherlock bent closer, taking the CEO’s limp hand in his and studying the wedding ring closely. Then he dropped it and strode to the front of the delivery van and pulled open the door, his grey eyes flashing over the interior. Litter and receipts on the floor, the wrappers of take-away, and a discarded styrofoam cup and straw. Sherlock’s gaze found what it sought and he backed away with a smirk, allowing the uniforms to brush past him and search the van.

He returned to John’s side and watched with cold detachment as the EMTs loaded Richardson into the ambulance, oxygen mask hooked to his face. The man’s eyes were blinking now, he was coming around.

John moved closer, and their shoulders brushed companionably. 

“He could have smothered, they wrapped him too tight, and what with the sedative,” John’s voice trailed off, and he shook his head. “He owes you his life, Sherlock."

The taller man gazed down on John (that neat hair, that impish nose, that square jawline, that neck, that blue collar, that cologne, that jumper…)

“Perhaps if Richardson didn’t beat his wife, she wouldn’t have been having an affair with the delivery driver.” He said.

John blinked and stared up at him.

“Smear of lipstick on the wedding ring, either she kissed his hand—unlikely—or he backhanded her before he left the house,” Sherlock rattled off. “She probably did provoke that fight specifically so that she would not be accompanying him to the event from which they planned to kidnap him. Too difficult to find another double for her, the more people you include in a plot like this, the weaker the security, the more payouts, smaller cut for everyone. He must have hit her before, however, or she wouldn’t have known he could be induced to do it that night. Nevertheless, she wears a distinctive dark mauve lipstick that perfectly matches the smear on the straw in the cup on the floor of the passenger side of the delivery van. I would surmise that she met the driver when he delivered a tapestry, they became involved, and when it turned out he was the cousin of the brother of the wife of the twin of the chauffeur, it must have seemed like a sign from above that Richardson’s fate should be to pave their way to a better life.”

Sherlock paused for a breath. “They would almost certainly have killed him. The wife would pay the ransom, collect most of it back again after cuts to the chauffeur and his twin, and be paid out a second time in life insurance, and a third time when she sold off his assets. It doesn’t pay to marry scheming young women and then beat them, but I suppose he has the right to live. There are no heroes here, however,” he finished. He was too afraid to peek and see if That Look was there in John’s eyes.

“There’s one.” John said softly, and put a gentle hand on Sherlock’s back before walking away. Sherlock stood where John left him, just swallowing, and breathing in and out for a bit.

Back at the Yard, Sherlock picked up the folder for the blackmailing case and skimmed through it while John went back down to the canteen for a sandwich. He flipped through it quickly and dropped it on the conference table. Then he texted Lestrade, who was in the depths of NSY questioning the delivery driver.

_-No blackmailer, starlet wants fame, it’s fraud, we’re leaving. –SH_

Then he went to pace by the elevator and wait for John. He settled his hands in his coat pockets and reviewed the day. Some good moments there. John at his side, John touching him, John staring up at him… God he wished they’d end up squeezed together in a closet or doorway or alcove somewhere. That would be a true test. John always made some nervous joke about “people will really talk now” whenever they were in close physical contact. Would he still do that? 

He stopped pacing. Idea.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Before John could emerge, Sherlock bounded in with him and jabbed the button for the Lobby. “Eat your sandwich, John, we’ve a stake-out to nab a blackmailer!” He said, his eyes alight.

“Ah. Okay,” John said, unwrapping his sandwich with admirable equanimity. With a great show of haste, Sherlock flagged down a cab as if they were embarking on a most dire errand, and was barking directions at the driver with such urgency, he pulled away from the curb before John could even get the door shut.

Sherlock settled in to plot while John finished his sandwich and stuffed the wrapper into his pocket.

“So, what are we looking for?” he asked, watching London hurtle by through the windows.

“Hm? Oh… er… very tall Cuban dressed all in white, probably with a hat,” Sherlock ad-libbed. “… And a glass eye.” It wouldn’t do for John to actually see someone who met the description and go barreling after him unexpectedly. 

When they finally settled into a likely alley, Sherlock formulated his plan. Wait for audible footsteps, dive into John’s arms and say they must not alert their quarry. Diversion. Hold John close and see if he flailed, or stiffened up, or did that ruffled, wet chicken, feather-smoothing recovery action, uttered some flip, deflecting remark that announced to anyone listening that this was just the sort of thing that would give people the _mistaken impression_ that they were a couple.  
Sherlock waited for footsteps. Any footsteps. Come, come, let there be footsteps.

There were no footsteps. Chewing his lip, he glanced over at John. John had settled back into that distracted, fixed-eye stare reminiscent of this morning’s trance at his laptop. He was clearly brooding about whatever he had written again. A whole row of white-clad Cubans with glass eyes could do a chorus line dance past them with canes, all high-kicking and tipping their hats at once and John wouldn’t notice.

Finally, to Sherlock’s intense relief, he heard footsteps. Before he could lose his nerve, he lunged at John.

“Here he comes!” Sherlock whispered, and launched himself at John, who startled and blinked at him like an owl. “Quick—“ he breathed, and curled himself around John in a loverly fashion, burying his face in John’s neck. 

Sherlock gathered John to him, pressed him against the brick wall beside the skip, and inhaled the cologne above the blue collar. For a moment, he felt John’s hesitation. Then, unexpectedly, John’s hands slid around Sherlock’s narrow waist and pulled him tight against his own belly, then held on firmly. 

The footsteps approached and suddenly Sherlock felt one warm hand drop down and take a firm hold of his arse. John was groping him! That hand nearly burned a hole in Sherlock’s trousers, and the other arm tightened until he was smashed against that oatmeal jumper, their legs entangled, their faces pressed together… Sherlock’s heart was racing and a shiver went through him. 

This had to mean something. It had to. It was certainly unnecessary for the benefit of the person passing by; John’s hands were under Sherlock’s coat, and more or less invisible. 

The footsteps faded. John withdrew his hands slowly, trailing them across the other man warmly before letting go. Then he pulled back a bit and looked Sherlock calmly in the eye.

“Are we following him?”

Sherlock swallowed, lips parted. He could barely remember his cover story. “Oh. No. I think I .. know enough from… the footsteps are… there’s no limp, it’s not him.” He stammered, and then righted his coat with a jerky tug at the open edges.

“Home then?” John enquired politely, and Sherlock gave a quick nod and turned blindly toward the street.  
John stepped forward, placed a gentle hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and guided him out of the alley so they could catch a cab. While they waited, Sherlock had a horrible thought. What if Mycroft saw him now? He glanced at John, who was standing quite contentedly on the sidewalk, a bit of a pleased curve to his lips, gazing straight ahead, while he, Sherlock was a quivery mess of singing nerves. 

Oh, he would not want Mycroft to see him now. Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s gaze, and they both simultaneously noticed the all-seeing eye of the closed-circuit camera behind the plate glass window. John even waved, “Hello Mycroft,” he commented, apparently unconcerned. Sherlock wanted to fall through the pavement. When the cab came, he dove in it and huddled, wanting nothing more than to sort his emotions without interference from anyone.

It was not to be. A very short while later, Sherlock found himself seated at a window table of a fine French restaurant, and John was absently fondling the candle at their table. Sherlock stared at the fingers caressing the candle, up and down. Up and down. 

He swallowed his wine, picked at his food, and shot glances across the table at John. Was this a date, or was this two friends getting dinner after a long day?

Candle says date. John picking out a new place for them said date. French restaurant, for God’s sake. Chinese is for after a murder. French is for before sex.

Blue shirt, he reminded himself, and downed another glass of wine. They talked briefly about the case of the blackmailer and then sank into silence. John checked his phone for messages. He wasn’t acting very date-like. No staring into eyes, no romantic remarks, no knee-touching under the table. 

Sherlock suddenly excused himself and made for the loo. Once inside, he pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade.  
_  
-He grabbed my arse. –SH_

_-I think that’s one of the Golden Signs, mate._

_-We were on stake out and I said we had to pretend to be making out in an alley and I put my arms around him and he grabbed my arse. –SH_

_-Oh. Well, still a good sign._

_-Now we’re at a French restaurant. –SH_

_-Sounds promising._

_-There’s a candle on the table. –SH_

_-Look, I say go for it. When you get him home, just… I dunno, kiss him. See what happens._

_-How much money will you lose if he punches me? –SH_

_-A lot, so make it good. I hope you know how to kiss._

_-Sod off. –SH_

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and returned to the table. John looked unruffled and pleasantly full.

A few moments later they were emerging from under the striped awning of the restaurant. 

John gave Sherlock an odd glance. “So. Shall we hail a cab or just let Mycroft take us home?” He asked.

Sherlock stared down at him in true alarm. John glanced past him and smiled. “Ah, there he is.”

Sherlock whirled, gaped at the black car gliding silently up, and for a moment his inner ears seemed to develop some sort of instantaneous infection. His first instinct was to grab John’s hand and shout “RUN!” But to his amazement, John docilely slid into the car, and Sherlock had no choice but to join him.

It was a horrific ride home. Mycroft bombarded him with meaningful stares of warning and waves of condescending pity. His eyebrows telegraphed a veritable Morse code of unwanted advice and he sighed out his misgivings over the myriad potential repercussions. Every head tip foretold another disaster. Every blink was a wince of reproach. Even when he swallowed, it was a display of all the pain he foresaw for those foolish younger brothers who do not heed wise advice.

Sherlock shot a look at John to see how he was handling this non-verbal assault, but John had apparently discovered a loose thread in his jeans and it absorbed his attention entirely until they reached Baker Street. There was something to be said for the blissful ignorance of the average mind.

With a disgusted snarl on his lips, Sherlock surged out of the car and whirled to face Mycroft with one last glower of defiance. It faded, however, when he saw his brother’s face. John was diving out of the car right behind Sherlock, and Mycroft was staring at him in what could only be described as pre-cardiac event horror. 

Awareness washed over Sherlock like cold water. John had communicated something to Mycroft, and he’d done it in such a manner as to conceal it from Sherlock, and blindside his brother.

No one blindsided Mycroft. (Well, maybe a few had but they’d probably disappeared mysteriously not long after.)

Sherlock’s hands were shaking so hard he could barely get the key into the door. Behind him, the black car pulled away and they were finally alone, inside 221B, heading up the stairs.

His skin was on fire with the realization that John had startled him and Mycroft both enough in one day to indicate more than mere luck was at play. Could it be that John was more … what… sentient than Sherlock had ever given him credit for being? Was it possible to have underestimated his friend literally for years?

Suddenly Sherlock wanted to turn and stare into John’s eyes now, right now, here, on the stairs, and see, no, OBSERVE. How could he miss something right under his nose this way? He whirled at the top of the stairs to see that John had frozen halfway up, clutching the banister, staring at the step before him.

Neither of them moved for a moment. Then John lifted his eyes and it was as though a mask had slipped. His face was somber, his eyes were open in a way Sherlock had never seen before. It was as though they were each seeing each other clearly for the first time. And John looked afraid.

“Are you coming up?” Sherlock asked, his heart pounding.

John’s mouth opened for a moment, and then he said, “We’re out of bread.”

They were not out of bread.

“And milk. I’ll just pop over to Tesco—“

Avoidance, then. An inexplicable rage filled Sherlock’s chest. He stormed into the flat and closed the door, hoping that John would follow him, but he didn’t. Downstairs, the door closed. John, running away.

Sherlock prowled the sitting room for a moment. He felt incredibly agitated and couldn’t even say for sure exactly why. He wanted to shoot at the walls. He went to the window, looked down at the street, and calm descended over him like grace. John was only a few steps from the door, staring down at his feet.

Sherlock waited, barely breathing. Either he’ll go, and be gone for hours, and come back with that placid, vague look on his face, a Let’s-Just-Forget-All-This-Nonsense demeanor firmly in place, just your flatmate bringing home the milk and wasn’t it a fun day and what shall I call this on the blog…

Or he will come back right now and they would look at each other again and both see what was behind their masks.

Abruptly, John lifted his head, turned, and looked directly up into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock stared back. I see you, finally, Sherlock thought. I really see you. And I think you at last see me. At last, you see me. I’ve been here all along. Now you see. You can’t go back from this, I will never forgive you.

John’s posture seemed to shift, becoming more relaxed and yet somehow primed, or ready for… something.

He turned and came back, and Sherlock listened as he mounted the stairs. The inside of his chest was expanding so mightily it felt as if his sternum might be dislocated. John came in the door, calmly hung up his coat, put his shoes against the wall, and turned toward the detective.

Sherlock watched his friend take four steps in his direction and stop, looking directly at him with no more hesitation, no more blandly pleasant layer… it occurred to Sherlock that John probably did not look at women that way. It may be that John had never looked at anyone that way in his life, and the joy that bloomed inside at this realization was too alien to be analyzed just now.

“We aren’t out of bread.” John said.

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. “No,” he agreed.

John opened his hands invitingly. “Well?”

Sherlock meant to go to him, but halfway there his knees and stomach became so unsteady he sat on the arm of John’s chair instead. He planted his feet wide apart and gazed at John, hoping the other man understood.

Of course he understood. It was John, after all. He came very close, sliding into the space reserved for him, and when Sherlock lifted his face and offered his lips, John cradled the dark curls, tipped forward, and took them as warmly and firmly as if they’d done this since the night they met.


End file.
